John Wayne Is Big Leggy

Back in the 1930’s a British civil servant by the name of Bertram Thomas was the first westerner to make a record of a journey across the heart of The Empty Quarter. He and his team walked between Salalah in Oman and Doha in, what is now, Qatar. His journey is being recreated by a modern day explorer with the less exciting name; Mark Evans.

The Empty Quarter is accepted to be amongst the harshest and most inhospitable areas of sand desert in the World. It’s also the largest. I’ve read that the dunes can reach up to 200 metres tall. Bertram’s efforts were incredible back in the 30’s. Warring tribes, dry watering holes and the risk of other illness or injury made the journey perilous. With no support, any serious mishap would lead to death. Today, the Empty Quarter is far from unconquered. Although Evans and two team members are aiming to walk the majority of the trek, they have a pack of camels to support weary feet and a whole support crew travelling by 4x4 with a few luxury items, things like food and water. Unlike Bertie, who upon reaching Doha had to sail to Manama just to send a telegraph to confirm his success, Evans progress is being tweeted near live and a satellite phone is used to relay daily blog updates to news agencies. It is very different. Bluntly, Evans stands little chance of being defeated by the elements. If he fails, it’ll be because he suddenly remembers he has a dentist appointment or as a result of incredibly bad luck. Evans expedition is essentially a PR stunt to support and celebrate the 45^th Anniversary of Oman’s Sultan Qaboos bin Said al Said (another exciting name).

But I don’t care about any of that, none of it makes it less exciting to me.

You see, as unadventurous as I can be, I have always marvelled at the “explorer” spirit. I’ve never got wrapped up in the jingoistic spirit of Empire, but have puzzled at what makes someone push themselves to such extremes at the risk of their life and limbs “just because”. There are true, great adventures to be found in pushing physical boundaries. From my youth, I always read with excitement and horror at the stories of Shackleton and Scott. Anyone who goes out on a limb, on their own and pits themselves against the elements has intrigued, shocked, frightened and inspired me. Even Ellen MacArthur.

So, I have been watching in on Evans progress. I trawl the website and I have the App. I suspect that I will buy the coffee table book that will undoubtedly follow. Like I say, the whole expedition – whilst having noble ideals regarding education, community and raising awareness of a changing continent – is relatively risk free. It is sponsored by the authorities of all three countries that he will cross (Oman, Saudi Arabia and Qatar). Evans will be fine.

Follow his adventure, here;

Mark Evans

But it’s close to home. Well, close(ish). You see, as it has worked out, Evans journey coincides with a renewed need for me to make more regular journeys to Riyadh. So, for the first time in close on twelve months, I am back to making my own odysseys across the desert.

Imagine what Saudi Arabia looks like. Look it up if you want; don’t let me stop you. In the meantime, here is a map on a coffee mug:

OK. Riyadh lies to the right of the centre of Arabia. Closer to the East than West. I live about half way down the Eastern coast (near Dammam), so Riyadh lies a way inland from me. It is some 450km (280 miles) west-south-west of Khobar. It’s about the same distance as Newcastle-Upon-Tyne is from London. Using the direct “Route 40” freeway, upon leaving Dhahran (a city connected to Khobar), the next town you see is Riyadh. To all intents and purposes it is a four to five hour drive across nothingness. So it is a challenge.

I’d been in Saudi for less than a week when I was required to travel over for the first time. Three of us piled into a car. Myself, my predecessor and our office manager. I was excited. It was my first time in the desert and I was bubbling with enthusiasm. Despite the early morning start, I was wide eyed and bushy tailed. I picked up that Stuart was less enthralled. All he offered me, before crashing out in the back seat of the car to sleep was to observe that, when he woke, he would point out his favourite sand dune. I sensed that he was bored of the journey – which he assured me I would be making at least once a week for the next 52 weeks – but still harboured a hope that he did, in fact, have a favourite sand dune and that he would show it to me.

The journey passed by. I was still struggling with Adel’s strong Arabic accent and he was struggling with my flowery English. Communication was limited, but onward we travelled. I sat with my camera poised, taking pictures of everything I could. Cars. Lorries. Sand. Cars. Lorries. Sand. Lorries. Cars. Cars. Lorries. Tarmac. Tarmac. Tarmac. Skid marks. Skid marks. Skid marks. Sand. Sand. Sand.

“Will I see camels?” I had asked. My spirit flying at the prospect.

“Yeah.” Stuart sighed. All excitement dead, gone and buried. I fear my excitement of the desert may have tired him out somewhat. I think that, perhaps, he feigned sleep to avoid talking to me rather than avoid the desert.

But, Stuart was right. I saw camels. Near. Far. Alone. In herds. Being herded. Being ridden. Not being ridden. In the back of trucks. At the side of the road. Behind the protective fence. On the wrong side of the protective fence.

Yes. I saw camels. Loads of them. As Adel would, glumly, say; “too many camels”.

A couple of hours into my first journey, I had tired of it. I understood Stuart and Adel’s quiet reticence at making the journey. It’s not the inspiring, soaring, glowing, majestic and apparently endless maze of dunes found in The Empty Quarter. My desert is litter strewn and rather dull and monotonous. Which explains why the authorities have been able to cut a 450 km swathe through it made of tarmac and allow people to take part in their own version of Wacky Races all the way to Riyadh.

For one reason or another, though, I stopped needing to make the journey on a weekly basis. Soon it was every three to four weeks. Sometimes – having headed the advice of colleagues – I opted for the train. So, although not entirely enamoured with the desert, I have never become utterly jaded and dejected by it like Adel and Stuart.

So, my recent journeys have allowed me to see it from a different perspective. Not one of enjoyment. I cannot, in all honesty, say that I relish the prospect of the journey, but I can appreciate that it’s not such routine as to become a total bore.

In comparison to Mark Evans, Bertram Thomas, Wilfred Thesiger and their ilk’s epic treks of endurance, my hops back and forth pale into insignificance. They lack the edge of the battle of man against the elements where one piece of bad luck – a misdirection, a storm, a lame camel – could leave you without water or food and no hope of rescue or recovery.

Given the abundance of fuel stops with associated shops, cafes, fast food joints, toilets and mosques on Route 40, it would have to be a particularly bad luck journey if you were to die of hunger or thirst. Trust me. It’s easy to get access to the key staple food groups – Pringles, Snickers and Mirinda Citrus – that the human body requires every ten to fifteen minutes. Even if you were caught with no money, judging by the number of beggars (sadly, women and children) in the stops closest to Riyadh, I am sure that you could get by on charity.

To a point, I could stretch a comparison out of the Wacky Races traffic on the road to the risk of death by the natural world. Perhaps a garishly coloured lorry – carrying an uneven load - with the phrase “Go Ravi Go” scrawled on the rear side swiping you as you pass, or the crazy Saud, ignoring all lane markings while and texting a friend, weaving through traffic at 220 kmph before taking you up the rear could count as an equivalent of being bitten by a snake in your sleeping bag. Maybe. But it would be a weak comparison.

But my journeys and their journeys do have one comparable. Like almost all long journeys, they force you to face boredom, fatigue and tiredness. And on Route 40, they can come into their own.

My past few trips exposed me to how I and my colleagues measure distance and time. And it’s stark. As you become used to the journey, you find unofficial way markers set apart from the endless grey road, its skid marks and its bumpy surface that makes that constant, dull “thuck thuck thuck thuck thuck” of rubber on tarmac for four hours.

Some of the markers are natural and obvious. There is a huge Crude Oil depot about an hour from Riyadh. The depots presence can be predicted by the quantity of power lines that shadow the road fifteen or twenty minutes before that. There are a number of Police Check Points en route that force you to slow down but rarely make you stop (the power of white skin and a purple passport). There are intersections with sign posts to small settlements and towns; Goodah, Urayarah and Burqayq. Date plantations and small farmsteads. Outside Riyadh are the crashed car compounds that stretch for miles and the tents and pens containing camel and sheep. There is even a Ferris wheel that stands on a small ridge surrounded by abandoned/incomplete buildings that appears to be part of a past or future – definitely not present – amusement park in the middle of nowhere. They all allow you to track time and progress and give you an idea of when you will arrive back home or in Riyadh.

But, the more you travel, the more you notice and the more the personal, informal way markers take hold.

You grow to recognise different sets of oil pipelines.

You notice the roads to nowhere on the edge of Riyadh and Dhahran, Roads that are fully metalled and made of tarmac. Streetlights are installed and are illuminated at night. The roads are fully paved. But there are no homes, no factories and no utility buildings on them. They do not join the freeway, they are thoroughly suburban. They just stop short of the embankment. Settlements of good ideas and intention. But stark and barren in delivery.

You notice the “Desert Access” signs. My favourites are about an hour out of Khobar on the return trek. About five in a short space advertise “Dessert Access”. When you are tired and hungry, they get you thinking about a whole different opportunity.

The unmarked Civil Defence or Military base with radio towers and barbed wire covered perimeter walls. My colleague Ken recalls a time – until quite recently – when the base was openly sign posted “Secret Police Station” or some such. Everybody, close your eyes. Look the other way. Shhhh!

And then there are the burned out vehicles that you learn to distinguish from one another as they are slowly swallowed by sand and time. Some, jack knifed and burned out close to the side of the road with dancing figure of eight trail of skid marks leading off road to the tragic, stopping point. Others are crashed up or beyond the wire fences keeping the camels away. Some just appeared parked up. As if the driver popped out for a pee. But they are slowly being enveloped in sand. Yet more sleep are on their sides or roofs.

The list becomes your own and goes on and on.

So you find yourself, when in company, talking and talking to keep the tiredness from becoming lethargy or worse. I guess, where Thesiger, Thomas and – now – Evans will be losing themselves in reflective contemplation. While they will have stared simple survival in the face each day, I find myself drifting between setting the World to right, contemplating either the horrors of Riyadh that are yet to come, thinking about which restaurant I will visit as a reward and happy nostalgia. Which is how, a few weeks ago, myself and Ken entertained ourselves by compiling imaginary 80’s music playlists that complemented and/or bettered the three CD set he had in the car.

For hours, we sang along to Men at Work, Bros, Flock of Seagulls, Adam & The Ants, Cyndi Lauper, Survivor and Thpmpson Twins while lamenting that the set could be improved by Duran Duran, Soft Cell, Heaven 17, Jona Lewie and The Cult. The CDs and the suggested improvements were as endless as the featureless road back to Khobar.

John Wayne is Big Leggy

A Short Walk to Nowhere

There is small, open gate in the fence along the road from Dammam Airport to Al Qatif. You leave the car there, next to a mobile telephone mast.

You are below sea level at this point. It’s marginal, but you are just below. It is a natural basin at the edge of the desert. Which explains why water gathers there in a lagoon. A lagoon surrounded by reed beds that, undisturbed, grow in excess of nine feet tall.

It is barely past dawn and the start of a short walk to nowhere.

Soon after I arrived in Saudi, a friend posted a comment about a picture I posted of the Dammam Riyadh highway suggesting that it lacked the romance of Lawrence of Arabia. He was right. It did and where I live, it does. The mental image of the desert is of vast rolling peaks and valleys of golden sand. Of light and shadow. These exist. There are thousands of square miles of them. Vivid reds and yellows, stretching toward and beyond the horizon toward forever. Most are to the south of Arabia in the Empty Quarter. The south of Saudi and the edges of UAE, Oman and Yemen. But out in the Eastern Province, it isn’t really so. Its pancake flat and a dull yellow brown. Worse still, it is regularly littered with building rubble, scrap metal, food waste and plastic bags. One day, I swear, I will find a faded Sellanby bag from South Harrow which I will save and keep. Treasure.

Sellanby was a 2nd hand record store in Harrow.
It's plastic bags were legendarily strong and long lasting. When it closed, 1,000+ students had to swallow their pride and buy proper bags to carry there stuff. It was a sad day. 

Despite the above, I still hold a romantic notion that the desert will offer me drama; offer me the long shadows of dunes at dusk and dawn. Failing that, it’ll offer me the unexpected. Which is what led to me heading out close to Dammam airport for a walk on an early morning in early July. I’d read about a place on a great Saudi Birdwatching site called, unsurprisingly, “Birds of Saudi Arabia”. Out of the way, remote and isolated. Heaven.

Birds of Saudi Arabia Website - see note below

It starts in low drifts of sand with grasses and roots holding it together. Occasional exposed stretches of sand show tell-tale signs of lizards. Twists in the sand showing the twists of their bodies and tails. Fragile and small paw prints – hand prints – showing the direction of travel.

The paw prints bring relief. You would rather be walking in knee deep grass risking a casual encounter with a lizard than a snake. I’ve left my antivenom at home. Come to think about it, I don’t have any antivenom.

Francis, my ever intrepid if vaguely unwilling companion, stops to draw my attention to the tracks. We argue for a while about whether they are snake or lizard tracks. I think that he is trying to convince me that they are snakes, so that I will relent, give up and go home back to bed. He is clearly knackered and his heart isn’t in it. But I remain steadfast and bullish.

Walk on.

After five minutes you are up close to the reeds; a formidable, verdant barrier in a barren waste. Tall, lush and thick. You cannot see through the barrier but can tell that the lagoon is behind them, but only because of the myriad, non-plussed alarm calls of one hundred invisible birds rising around you.

Heading north you look and fail to find a gap in the reeds bar one that is waterlogged and unpassable to idiots with unsuitable footwear. Sure, Peter O’Toole would flounce off through the gap, carrying his supplies and camels on his shoulders.

But I am not Peter O’Toole. I am an idiot.

Walk on.

4x4 tracks skirt the edge. The sand is flattened down to concrete. You follow, as it is easy on the feet, and begin to disturb Egyptian Nightjar. One. Two. Four. Sixteen. The numbers are close to becoming exponential. They are sitting, invisible at the side of the track until they rise in silence on long wings that betray their relative small size and silently glide to safety. They start ten meters away from you. They are happy when they reach twenty five, where they settle down again and, static, blend back into the dusty grey brown soil and heat haze. In time you grow use to them and you start to pick their shapes out and focus on their wide, watching eyes. Watching them, watching you. You walk, guessing how many steps it will be before they are again spooked into rising above you to twist and turn their way to safety.

The car tracks break away from the reed beds.

Stretching to the horizon, two tyre width strips lead the way. You follow and become increasingly aware of the damp presence of water. The soil surface is dried and caked. Salt crystals have formed at the surface. The top soil cracks and crunches under foot exposing a dark brown undersoil that is sponge like. Where you pick the wrong place, the top soil sinks to an ankle depth. If you stand still, you seem to sink further. If you hurry through, you trip yourself up. It is abundantly clear that you you’re walking on a dried lake bed that appears to have no boundary or border.

So you choose the car tracks. Progress improves as you follow the crushed soil lines. You walk, single file in near pigeon steps onward toward the horizon where you see sand dunes, proper sand dunes waiting. Light and shadow. White and gold.

You walk for fifteen minutes in a straight line and reach the first of the dunes. Unimpressive. You feel cheated at dunes that would look half-hearted in parts of north Norfolk. Even in a low breeze you can see the shifting sands but the presence of thick grasses testify that this is not the dynamic moving dunes of your dreams. But that is where you stop.

The low horizon has already caught you out. What you thought were the start of a range of dunes is merely a low hedge like barrier to another endless and barren salt crusted plain. It seems to stretch for miles, again with the faint promise of sand dunes on the far side. This time, there are no car tracks to aid your trekking.

You are forced into a choice. Onward or bust.

Way behind you, Francis is walking in the opposite direction. Toward his car where he has shade from the fast rising sun, air con, Saudi Aramco Studio 1’s classic rock on the radio and a place to sleep.

Decisions have been made. 

Lawrence of Arabia will have to wait for another day.

Notes

As a rule, when travelling, I tend to look for local ornithology sites. Yes, I am interested in bird life, but generally the sites are great starting points to identify areas to get out and about exploring, often off the beaten track. The Birds of Saudi Arabia website offers not only great tips on locations to watch birds but also posts some great photos that capture nature/natural life in the region. I'd recommend a look.